"Not so, Sir Rowland," returned Jonathan; "you are my prisoner. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. She saw herself building up a life upon that —a life restrained, kindly, beautiful, a little pathetic and altogether dignified; a life of great disciplines and suppressions and extensive reserves. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. But I do not love you. Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace.
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